


they can break our hearts (they won't take our souls)

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aphrodisiacs, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Poly, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Defense, Sexual Slavery, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 19:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17230232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “C’mere,” she says softly, scooting over until she’s close enough to touch him.  She keeps her hands to herself, though, mindful of the stench of terror and sadness seeping from his pores.  “Can you turn over?”He tries to answer, but unintelligible mumbling noises are all that comes out.  He can barely move his lips.“I’m going to help you,” Malia warns before carefully rolling him onto his back, whispering apologies when he hisses through his teeth at the pain the jarring causes.  Now that Malia can see his face, she can see that his lips are trembling and his brown eyes are filled with tears, dripping steadily from the corners of his eyes and into his hair.  “What did they do to you?” she says sadly, but she’s not actually asking.  She can figure it out.  “I’m going to take your pain, okay?”The boy smacks his lips in answer.  Malia takes the pain from his mouth first.Stiles and Malia end up cellmates in a sex trafficking compound. They take care of each other the best they can.





	they can break our hearts (they won't take our souls)

**Author's Note:**

> so. this one is gonna be a doozy. sorry.
> 
> there is both consensual and nonconsensual sex in this story...the consensual is pretty explicit whereas the noncon is not. any noncon is mostly glossed over or merely discussed after the fact. however, if you want to know more about what you're getting into, see the end notes for more expounded-on details.
> 
> as far as other warnings go, there is quite a bit of blood and violence as well as many unsanitary situations. in other words, it's gross because it _would_ be gross. my bad.
> 
> title from 'empty gold' by halsey
> 
> i don't own teen wolf *shrugs*

The door is made of mountain ash.

The walls are, too, but that’s not as problematic as the door.  The walls Malia can deal with, but the door?  That’s got her shouting in frustration as her hands are forced back by some invisible pressure, like magnets with opposite polarity.

“You can’t keep me in here!” she screams at the closed door even though, apparently, they can.  They can and they are.  Her stomach is hot with fury.  “I’ll fucking kill you!”

There’s laugher through the thick ash wood, just barely audible.  It makes her blood burn even hotter.

She spends the next few hours scoping the room – if the tiny cell can even be called a room – for any way of escape and comes up empty.  There are no windows, no holes in the flooring, no weaknesses in the walls…which is just as well considering she can’t touch them anyway.  There’s a bucket in the corner that’s clearly being used as a makeshift toilet, if the acrid smell of urine is anything to go by, and a crumpled pile of blankets against the far wall that looks slept on.

It makes her wonder where her roommate is.

Her wondering comes to an end when the door opens and a limp body is tossed down the two wooden steps into the cell.  Then the door is slammed shut again.

It’s a boy about Malia’s age, dark haired and pale skinned and smelling of tears and semen.  The scent makes Malia’s blood run cold as she pieces it all together.  These aren’t just kidnappers – these are _traffickers_.  She wants to vomit or scream or kill someone.  Preferably all three.

Then the boy makes a pained moaning sound and Malia takes a deep breath to control the rage simmering inside her.  The boy needs her right now…she can worry about murder plots later.

“C’mere,” she says softly, scooting over until she’s close enough to touch him.  She keeps her hands to herself, though, mindful of the stench of terror and sadness seeping from his pores.  “Can you turn over?”

He tries to answer, but unintelligible mumbling noises are all that comes out.  He can barely move his lips.

“I’m going to help you,” Malia warns before carefully rolling him onto his back, whispering apologies when he hisses through his teeth at the pain the jarring causes.  Now that Malia can see his face, she can see that his lips are trembling and his brown eyes are filled with tears, dripping steadily from the corners of his eyes and into his hair.  “What did they do to you?” she says sadly, but she’s not actually asking.  She can figure it out.  “I’m going to take your pain, okay?”

The boy smacks his lips in answer.  Malia takes the pain from his mouth first.

She works steadily for a few minutes, drawing pain from his head and his arms and his bruised stomach until her hands hesitate at his waistline.  “Can I touch?” she asks gently, chest aching as she gazes down at him.  He’s almost skin and bones.  “I can pull the pain from your—you know—out of your lower back, if you let me.”

The boy cries at that, a fresh wave of tears skittering down his face, but he nods forlornly.

Up until this point, the pain was manageable, barely causing Malia more than minor discomfort.  But the pain from his backside is searing, overwhelming, and she can’t help the sharp intake of breath that wracks her body.  She pulls it anyway, draining it and draining it until there’s nothing left.  When she’s done the boy is crying again, but this time in gratitude and relief.

“Thank you,” he rasps, mouth finally working.  “There were three.  Of them, I mean.  I’m—um, t- _torn_.”

“God,” Malia says, sick to her stomach.  She smooths his sweaty hair back away from his forehead and he shudders.  “What is this place?”

“Hell,” the boy says succinctly, eyes falling closed wearily.  Then, apropos of nothing, “I have to shit.”

Malia blinks down at his slack face in surprise.  “Come again?”

“I tore three days ago,” the boy explains, painfully bringing his arms up so he can hug himself.  There is sweat beading on his forehead and he’s starting to shiver.  Malia doesn’t have more than a high school education, but even she knows that’s not good.  She grabs one of the blankets from the pile and drapes it over him.  “And I can’t heal because they keep using me, so—I can’t, um.  _Go_.  And I really need to.”

“God,” Malia says again, a slimy feeling worming its way down her spine.  She breathes carefully through her nose to keep from throwing up.  “What’s your name?”

“Stiles.”

“I’m Malia,” she tells him.  He cracks one eye open at her before his body goes lax again, too exhausted to do anything but lie there.  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m c- _cold_ ,” is all he says and Malia lies down next to him, curling her warm body around his freezing one, absorbing the shaking as well as she can.

After what feels like an hour, he’s finally still and breathing evenly.  Malia thinks he’s asleep, but then he speaks up, his words sending terror licking through her veins.  “They have cells all over this compound, but this is their favorite one.  My best friend, Scott, used to be in here with me – he’s a wolf like you – but he killed one of the guards defending me so they shot him with wolfsbane.  Not even the purple stuff – they used the _yellow_ stuff.”  He takes a shaky breath.  “They probably won’t come for you for a couple days because they like us tired and half-starved, but they _are_ going to come for you.”  He wraps trembling fingers around her wrist.  “I hope you get a woman.  They don’t hurt so much.”

Now it’s Malia’s turn to cry, half in despair and half in disbelief.  Stiles turns on his side, yelping aloud at the pain that rips through his body, and carefully runs his fingers through her hair.  “I’ll take care of you,” he promises quietly, the words full of conviction like they didn’t just meet an hour ago.  “That’s what we do here – we take care of each other.”

“And find a way out,” Malia says decisively, stubbornly.  Stiles doesn’t answer.

*** 

Malia wakes up in the middle of the night to find Stiles crouched over the bucket and sobbing.

“I can’t hold it anymore,” he weeps, in too much pain to be embarrassed about being caught in such a state.  “I _have_ to go!  I’m gonna explode.”

“Okay, sh-shh, I got you,” Malia says, springing to her feet and racing to his side.  She wraps one arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close so he can muffle his cries in her t-shirt, and uses the other one to take what pain she can.  She bypasses his lower back, instead pressing the flat of her palm to his bare cheek, swallowing back a whimper at the raw agony that starts coursing through her veins.  It feels like fire.  “Try and get it out.  I’ve got you, Stiles.”

Even with Malia siphoning the pain from his skin, she knows it’s got to be red hot anguish.  The bucket is filled with blood and Stiles is clawing at her hips as he finally manages to relieve himself, wailing noises falling from between his lips to get lost in the cotton of Malia’s clothes.  It takes nearly fifteen minutes for him to finish up, but Malia just holds him through it all, making quiet shushing noises all the while.

Malia all but carries Stiles back to bed when he’s done. 

“Better?” she asks into the strange stillness of their cell.  “A lot more comfortable?”

“ _Mmm_ yeah,” Stiles agrees sleepily, pulling one of the blankets up to their chins.  It smells like body odor and mildew.  “So much better, _god_.”

Malia knows that’s mostly the hand she still has pressed to his ass, drawing the pain from his wounds, but she doesn’t point it out.  She lets him sleep.

*** 

They don’t come for Malia for days upon days, but they don’t feed her either.

Her stomach hurts, aching and empty like a bottomless pit, and by the end of the week she barely has enough strength to growl at the guards when they come to take Stiles away, callously throwing him over their shoulders like a sack of potatoes.  Stiles is in so much pain he cries.

That night, he comes back with two black eyes and a split lip.  Malia can barely lift her head to look at him. 

“I tried to sneak some food back for you,” he rasps, crawling across the cement floor to huddle next to her body.  He’s trembling and absolutely freezing, but the press of his back against her front has become so familiar Malia is instantly comforted.  She hugs him around the waist.  “That’s why they beat me.”

“Don’t get hurt for me,” she pleads weakly, burying her face between his shoulder blades and breathing him in.  He smells awful – he’s weeks overdue for a shower and there’s a sheen of fear on his skin that never quite goes away – but she gulps hungrily at his scent anyway, like it’s some form of sustenance.  “You won’t heal!  Let me take your pain.”

But when she presses a hand flat against his belly, ready to pull all the hurt from his body like she does every night, Stiles wraps a gentle hand around her wrist.  “Not tonight,” he says firmly.  “You need to save your energy…there’s no telling when they’ll finally let you eat.  Besides, it was a woman today.  I don’t hurt that much.”

“Just one woman?”

Stiles flinches.  “Five.”  Then he takes a deep, rattling breath and says, voice thick with tears, “They made me walk naked past the guards.  They kept pinching my ass and calling me ‘baby.’  One of them pinched my penis – dug his nails in and everything.  I almost passed out.”

Malia is horrified.  “I’m so sorry, Stiles,” she whispers into his neck.  “That’s humiliating.”

“Yeah.”  Stiles sniffs hard, snot rattling in his nose.  Malia can hear him swallow it.  “But they gave me a good meal and didn’t put anything in my—yeah.  So I think it was worth it.”

Even so, Malia forces herself to stay awake until Stiles is snoring softly so she can take his pain, moving her hands slowly from hot spot to hot spot.  The pain’s definitely less, but it’s still there.  She pulls until she can’t keep her eyes open.

***

Malia doesn’t move for three days.  She can't.

“I’m gonna try again,” Stiles promises, whispering into her ear.  “To get food for you.”

He gets caught again and returns with blood-stained teeth.  This time he doesn’t argue when she takes his pain with fluttering fingers, just lets his eyes fall closed and a deep moan rip from his throat.  He smells like sex – like _bad_ sex.  Like bad sex and too many bodies and bloody scratches from cruel fingernails and so much semen Malia has to wonder how many there were.

“Too many, Stiles,” she says, because she’s heartbroken and she just can’t help it.

“Eight,” he admits, face slick with tears.  The words come out sounding like his tongue is swollen.  “My penalty.  Two in my mouth at once.”

Malia nuzzles her cheek up against his and takes the pain at the point of contact.

But they must decide eight men isn’t enough of a punishment because a handful of guards bust into their cell in the middle of the night to force Stiles’ mouth open and pour something down his throat.  He chokes, trying to cough it out, but they clap a hand over his lips until he swallows it down.  Malia expects them to beat him – she’s already gathering what meager strength she has to try and fight them back – but they leave quietly.  For once, they’re lucky.

It only takes about twenty minutes for their luck to run out. 

Hands clutching desperately at his belly, Stiles scuttles across the concrete floor to the bucket, muttering “ _no no no NO!_ ” under his breath as he tears at the fly of his pants.  He gets them down as quickly as possible, but it’s not fast enough to save his underwear and he sobs out loud when it becomes obvious that he’s dirtied them.  Malia squeezes her eyes shut to give him some privacy.

“I wanna die,” he whimpers some minutes later, his poor body forcibly emptying itself like it’s enraged.  “It hurts so bad!  Oh god, it just—it _hurts_.”

Every single one of Malia’s limbs feel like they weigh a ton, but she somehow manages to scoot herself across the floor until she’s sitting in front of Stiles.  Silently so as not to embarrass him, she slides his pants down and over his feet until they’re completely off, careful to keep them away from his messy underwear.  She manages to keep them clean, folding them up and tossing them toward their makeshift bed.  They land among the threadbare blankets.

It’s as she’s doing away with his underwear that Stiles snorts a misery-tinted laugh and says, heat rising in his cheeks, “We’ve _got_ to stop meeting like this.”

She just gives him a sad smile.  “It’s okay, Stiles,” she whispers.  “It’s not your fault.”

He sits on the bucket most of the night, choking on sobs every time his body decides to convulse again.  Then, once he’s sure he’s finally empty, he comes to bed, naked from the waist down.

“Sleep, buddy,” Malia tells him tiredly, listing forward to bump her forehead against his.  “I’ll take care of you.”

“That’s what we do here,” Stiles agrees, fumbling to hold Malia’s hands where they’re pinned between their bodies.  “You sleep, too.”

But when Malia wakes in the morning, Stiles reeks of terror.  His eyes are huge and wet and there’s saliva dripping down his chin like he’s been sobbing for a long time.  When she groans out a wordless sound, Stiles sags forward in relief and puts a hand on each of her cheeks, gently holding her by the face. 

“I’ve been trying to wake you up for almost ten minutes!” Stiles chokes out hoarsely, voice sounding like it’s been through the blender.  “Malia, I thought you were _dead_.”  His voice drops to a tiny, sad little whimper.  “I can’t lose another friend.”

“Not dead,” Malia promises, though she kind of feels like she is.  The sharp pain in her empty stomach has long since dulled to a steady ache, but her limbs hurt more than ever.  She can barely turn over on her back without tearing up, energy completely depleted until her body feels like it’s made of wet paper.  She needs food and she needs it weeks ago.  “Not yet, anyway.”

Stiles is quiet for a long time.  “Maybe—” he finally says and then stops.  He shudders seemingly to himself before reaching down to smooth a finger over her eyebrows.  The touch is so comforting Malia’s eyes fall closed again.  “Maybe you should ask them to take you.  I don’t know what game they’re playing with you, making you wait, but it’s just too long, Mal.  I know it sounds fucking awful, but if they take you upstairs they’ll feed you when it’s all over.  I promise.  They always do.”

The thought is so awful, so repugnant, that Malia gags and feels bile coat her throat.  “No!” she hisses, despite the burn in her mouth.  “I’m not going to do that!”

“But you’re going to _die_ ,” Stiles points out, pleading with her as he presses close.  “Going upstairs is better than—”

“Shut up!”  The cell rings with the angry shout and Stiles winces, covering his ears.  No one’s spoken above a murmur in days and it’s just too loud.  Malia uses what’s left of her strength to shove Stiles away.  “I’d rather die!”

Stiles is crying again.  “Okay,” he weeps, curling into a ball on the floor and hiding his face behind his arms.  “Okay, I’m sorry.”

They stay like that until Stiles is taken away by a guard who sneers at the stench of the cell and Stiles’ half-naked appearance. 

“See what happens?” he spits, hauling Stiles to his feet.  Stiles yowls in pain.  “You wanna act like a fucking dog, we’ll treat you like a fucking dog…got it?”

“Got it,” Stiles wheezes, his heartbeat skipping with nerves, and then he’s gone.

*** 

Malia thinks about Stiles’ heartbeat as she falls in and out of consciousness.  He was lying.  She’s just not sure about what.

It must be the _getting it_ part, because once he’s tossed carelessly back into the cell, he holds deathly still until the door closes and then he’s spitting something out into his hand.  It’s a cracker, soggy around the edges but mostly still holding together.

He holds it out to her.

She stares at him for a few seconds, stunned into silence, before she reaches out a shaky hand for the piece of food.  “Go on,” he says quietly.  “I know it’s kind of gross, but it’s the only way I could sneak it out.  They were so happy that I finally stopped yelling at them that they didn’t think to check why.”

Malia lunges for it, unabashed, and practically inhales it, spitty edges and all.  It’s not enough to actually do anything, but it helps on a mental level to know that there’s something in her stomach.  Maybe everything isn’t completely hopeless after all.

“Thank you,” she says, trembling.  “And I’m sorry that I yelled at you.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, waving her away.  He slumps over, exhausted from whatever hellish ordeal he’d lived through that day.  “I shouldn’t have said what I did…it was stupid.”

“Come here.”  Malia opens her arms to him, her body going warm when he eagerly curls up next to her.  “Let me take your pain, baby.”  He stiffens at the pet name and Malia’s face goes hot and guilty.  “Sorry, I—”

He quickly shakes his head.  “It’s just weird to hear it in your voice instead of—theirs.  It’s good, though.  I like it.”  His eyes are full of sadness when they search hers pleadingly.  “Say it again.”

“ _Baby_ ,” she whispers into his neck, concentrating on pulling pain where their skin presses together.  She knows his mouth always hurts something awful.  “You’re going to be okay, baby.”

And he is, falling asleep in her arms as she lets his aches and pains seep into her veins despite the way it makes her stomach roil.  She’s okay, too, because Stiles keeps it up after that, bringing a little something for her to eat each day.  It’s nowhere near enough, but she no longer feels on the edge of death. 

It tides her over until one of the guards announces that she’ll be going upstairs the following morning.  Her blood turns to ice.

*** 

Stiles tells her what to expect.

He tries to be all business, ripping it off like a Band-Aid, but he can’t calm the tremors in his hands as he explains.  “They’ll clean you up first – or rather, they’ll _pretend_ to clean you up.  They mostly just care about making you presentable and if that can be done without wasting soap, you better believe they’re gonna do it.”  Stiles scratches at his scalp in annoyance.  “I haven’t been shampooed in almost a month.  I think there are _bugs_ in my fucking hair.”

“There are,” Malia whispers because she’s seen them.  “Sometimes I can feel them crawling down your neck at night.”

Stiles sighs.  “Lovely.”  His sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on it.  “Then they’ll bring you before the customers and let them barter over who gets you.  If they’re desperate enough for you, they might pool their money and go together.  That’s the opposite of what you want…that’s how you end up taking three men at once.  That’s how you end up torn.”  He shudders.  “Your best bet is to find that balance between submissive and angry – that’s no man’s land.  That bores them.  They probably won’t fight for you, then.”

Malia can feel her mouth flooding with bile, but she chokes it back, cocking her head at him curiously.  “Do you bore them?”

“I was much too angry at first,” Stiles says, face drawn with regret.  “I fought them tooth and nail – sometimes literally.  By the time I realized that it just made things worse, I’d already gotten a reputation.”  His eyes fill with tears and he has to look away, swiping the back of his hand across his nose.  A streak of snot is left on his skin, glinting in the dim light of the cell.  “I wasn’t kidding when I said this is their favorite cell.”

“God, Stiles.”  Malia reaches out to rub a thumb across his trembling jawline.  “That’s so fucked up.”

He nods, but doesn’t say anything more on the subject.  “After you service them, the guards will take you to the kitchen for dinner.  They don’t give you a lot, but it’s enough to keep the hunger pains away for the most part.  You’re going to feel gross and weak and scared, but you need to eat anyway.  It’s the only way you’ll survive.”  A tear drips off his nose.  “Then they’ll bring you back here to rest up for the next day.”

“And you’ll be here,” Malia says because she needs to know.  “For me.  You’ll take care of me.”

“Of course,” Stiles promises, nodding vehemently.  “I can’t take your pain, but I can dry your tears.  I’ve gotten good at that.”  His voice breaks.  “I used to let Scott blow his nose into my shirt.  Isn’t that gross?”

Malia crawls across the floor to wrap her arms around Stiles’ shaking frame.  “You must’ve loved him a lot.”

Stiles goes limp, too exhausted to hold himself up a second longer.  “Yeah, I did,” he says bitterly.  “I did and they fucking killed him.”

“They won’t get away with it.”

Stiles snorts like he doesn’t believe her.

*** 

Malia wakes up in tears.  The anticipation of what’s to come weighs so heavily on her chest it’s hard to breathe and she finds herself shaking Stiles by the shoulders, desperate to not be alone anymore.

The second he opens his eyes, she wails, “I’m a virgin, Stiles!”

The admission has him shooting up to a sitting position, exhaustion and pain forgotten.  “Oh, Mal,” he murmurs, forehead wrinkled with sympathy.  He tugs her in by the back of the neck to kiss her on the temple.  “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.  You shouldn’t have to have your first time this way.”

Everything feels like a nightmare – the cold cement beneath Malia’s bare knees, the sound of her ragged breaths echoing in her own ears, the scratch of Stiles’ calloused fingers against her shoulders – and it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not.  But when she whispers, pleads, “Will you be my first?” it’s realer than ever.

Stiles stares at her in shock.  “You want me to—?”

“ _Please_.”  Malia can’t stop crying.  “I can’t, just—I _can’t_.   I can’t go up there and—”

“Hey, sh-shh,” Stiles soothes her, running gentle hands down her arms until he’s linking their fingers together.  His expression is open and full of so much affection, Malia can’t help but cry harder.  “If that’s really what you want, okay?  But you need to be sure.  I don’t want to—”  He shakes his head, his jaw tightening with anger.  “—I won’t sleep with someone who isn’t absolutely sure.”

She understands his hesitation – especially considering the setting – but Malia’s never felt more sure of something in her life.  She’s jittery with terror, like it’s settled over her body like a slimy second skin, but here with Stiles, his warm hands holding her icy cold ones, she feels safe.  Bad things are going to happen today – there’s no stopping it – but maybe she can have this one thing.  This one _good_ thing.  So she takes a deep breath and sighs out, “I’m sure.”

Stiles gives a single jerky nod.  “Alright.”  Then he pulls her in to kiss her.

His lips are chapped and scratchy but her eyes flutter closed anyway, her heart racing.  She presses forward eagerly, licking at his mouth like she’s begging to be let inside.  Surprisingly, he resists, keeping his lips sealed shut.  After a while, Malia pulls back with her eyebrows raised.  “Are you okay?” she whispers, twining her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.  It’s so greasy her hand comes away sticky.  She doesn’t mind.  “Do you not want to do this?  Tell me the truth.”

He blushes high on his cheeks.  “It’s not that,” he promises sheepishly.  “If I didn’t want to do this, I wouldn’t be.  I’m just—”  He ducks his head, embarrassed.  “I taste terrible, Mal!  My teeth are practically rotting out of my skull.”

It’s not at all what Malia expected him to say.  “They don’t clean your teeth?  When they take you upstairs?”

“Why would they?” Stiles says bitterly.  His nostrils flare like he’s furious or miserable or both.  “The customers don’t kiss us.  They barely even _touch_ us.  They just put stuff in us and try to make us bleed.”

When Malia presses forward again, brushing her lips against his, Stiles is crying.  It’s nearly uncontrollable, tears streaking down his face and snot leaking from his nose, but Malia just runs comforting hands down his bony chest.  “I don’t mind,” she murmurs against his lips.  He tastes like tears.  “I want you anyway.”

Stiles chokes, whether on his tears or his emotions, but finally opens his mouth and lets her inside.  And he was right – he tastes horrible.  He tastes horrible and his tongue is dry from dehydration and Malia can feel mucus from his nose dripping onto her upper lip, but she doesn’t pull away.  “ _Baby_ ,” she murmurs, overcome with emotion.  She takes him by the shoulders and gently pushes him down until he’s lying on one of the blankets.  She straddles his lap and his hands fly up to grip at her hips.  “ _Baby_.”

They stay like that for ages, just kissing and crying.  They’re both dehydrated, so the slide of their tongues against each other makes their salivary glands work overtime until there’s so much spit neither of them know what to do with it.  Malia pulls back at one point, giggling at the string of saliva that connects their lips, and uses the hem of her shirt to wipe their mouths dry.  “Told you it’d be gross,” Stiles says, but this time he’s not embarrassed.  He’s looking up at her like he can’t even believe she’s real.  She just dives down to suck his top lip into her mouth, moaning as butterflies flap their wings in her belly.

Stiles still isn’t embarrassed when he admits in a whisper, mouth pressed to her ear like a secret, “I don’t think I’m gonna get hard, Mal.  Everything hurts too much.  I’m sorry—it’s not you, I promise.  You’re perfect.”

Malia just kisses the palm of his hand.  “That’s okay,” she says even though she’s so wet she can feel it dripping down her thighs.  Stiles hasn’t noticed yet.  “We don’t have any condoms anyway.”

“I can use my fingers,” he offers.  “I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

It should be a sad statement, probably, since Malia knows exactly _how_ he’s gotten so good at it, but it’s like the entire world has disappeared, leaving her with nothing but _Stiles Stiles Stiles_.  The cell is tiny and smells like piss and somewhere through the mountain ash door guards are gathering together, waiting to throw her to the mercy of the worst people, but for now Stiles’ hands are rucking up her shirt to stroke gently at her stomach and the curve of her breasts and she’s dripping all over him, grinding down into the sharpness of his hip, and she can’t think about anything else.  “Please, touch me!” she begs hoarsely.  She grabs his hand and presses it down in between her legs where she’s so soaked it feels like she’s pissed herself.  “Please, I—I _need_ you.”

“ _God,_ Malia,” he breathes, eyes wide.  “Yeah, baby, I’ll—take care of you.”

Then he’s tucking his fingers in through the leg of her shorts and pressing them inside. 

His fingers are a lot bigger than hers are, so the stretch is a foreign sensation and she clenches up almost immediately, groaning.  He just pulls her down to kiss at her slack mouth, soothing her until she relaxes enough to let him make her feel good.  And it _does_ feel good.  It feels _so_ good and soon she’s panting into his mouth, unable to stop the noises that tear from the back of her throat.

“Sorry,” she wheezes at some point, digging her nails into his shoulders.  He just rubs his free hand down her back in answer.

He coaxes three orgasms from her before she knocks his hand away, hypersensitive and shaky.  “Too much,” she says and he obeys immediately, pulling out and wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug.

“Was that okay?” he whispers, peppering kisses along her jawline.  “For your first time?”

“Better than okay,” Malia says and she means it.  She sticks her tongue out to lick at his chin and he laughs.  “Thank you, Stiles.”

“I’m glad I could do that for you,” he murmurs.  Then, “I hope you get a woman.”

His words put everything back into perspective and Malia buries her face in his neck.  Together they wait for the door to open.

*** 

She gets a woman.

She only has to stand before the customers for about thirty seconds, hair dripping from the hasty rinse that was supposed to pass as a shower, before a dark-haired woman puts down a five hundred dollar bid that no one contests.  “You’re a pretty face, aren’t you, princess?” she says as she leads Malia toward one of the private rooms.  “They’ve been holding out on us!”

Malia doesn’t answer, just lifts one corner of her mouth in a facsimile of a smile.  She’s trying to find the balance Stiles was talking about.

The second Stiles’ name enters Malia’s thoughts, she banishes it.  He was gone within _ten_ seconds, snatched up by some graying man that didn’t even wait until they were out of sight to shove a hand down Stiles’ pants.  It makes Malia want to vomit so she forces her mind to go carefully blank.  She needs to survive this and that’s not going to happen if she’s already tipping over the edge of her sanity before it even starts.

There’s no pain.  The woman is gentle and almost kind, patient as Malia hesitates between her legs, sucking in a nervous breath as she eyes where the woman is wet and glistening.  “You ever eaten someone out before, sweetheart?” she asks, fingers deceptively soft as she tucks Malia’s hair behind her ear.

Malia shakes her head, stomach twisting with anxiety.

It seems to delight the woman, a grin spreading across her face that’s at once thrilled and triumphant.  “That’s okay,” she says, like a tender lover rather than a person who’s getting what they paid for.  “Just try your best and I won’t be disappointed.  I’m sure you’re wonderful!”

The words ringing in her ears, Malia takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and gets it over with.  If the woman’s appreciative moans are anything to go by, Malia does alright.  The scent of arousal is overwhelming and the room is echoing with the sound of their heartbeats, Malia’s thundering with panic and the woman’s with ecstasy.  Finally, after much too long, the woman clenches up, her thighs nearly crushing Malia’s head, and comes hard, choking out a name Malia doesn’t know.  She thinks it might’ve been “Kali.”

It makes Malia feel so used, tears prick at her eyes.

She doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because the woman doesn’t let Malia pull away – no, she holds Malia by the back of the head and grinds forward against Malia’s mouth, chasing another orgasm.  Malia can barely keep up, can barely breathe, and she feels her claws coming out for the first time in nearly six weeks as she chokes between the woman’s legs.  She curls her hands into fists to hide them.

When the woman comes again, she finally lets Malia go, eyes widening at the blood that’s dripping from Malia’s palms.  “Extraordinary,” she says, still panting for breath.  “What a beautiful creature you are.”

The emphasis is on “creature,” not “beautiful.”

Malia sits in the middle of the bed as the woman puts her clothes back on and gathers her things.  She’s blinking rapidly, trying not to cry, so many conflicting feelings ripping through her body at once.  It’s hard to reconcile the woman’s gentle demeanor with the setting, the sticky wetness in Malia’s underwear with the churning in her stomach, the urgency to run from the room screaming with the longing for the woman to hold her.  She doesn’t let herself dissolve into sobs until the door has shut safely behind the woman.

They only let her cry for about a minute.  When the guards come in, they take her by the arms and march her toward the kitchen, making snide comments that make Malia’s face heat in humiliation. 

“That’s one fuck I’d’ve loved to sit in on,” one of them says like Malia isn’t even there.  “Pretty little thing like this—”  He shakes Malia.  “— _and_ Ms. Baccari?  That’s some fantasy shit, man!”

“Too bad she wolfed out,” another says and Malia almost falls to her knees right there.  She hadn’t thought to look for cameras, but it makes sense that they probably have them to make sure nothing goes south.  The thought that her sadistic kidnappers were _watching_ her be desecrated, _watching_ her choke and cry and eat a woman out for the very first time, is so violating Malia can’t help but whimper out loud.  The guard slaps her on the back of the head.  “The boss is going to find out about that, by the way.  You’re lucky Ms. Baccari is so understanding…you don’t want to find out what would happen if she wasn’t.”

 The first guard folds his fingers into a gun, pretending to shoot something in the distance.  Malia swallows hard.

Just like Stiles promised, they feed her well.  She feels disgusting, gingerly picking up her fork with shaking fingers, trying to touch everything as little as possible.  They didn’t even let her wash her hands.  But her stomach is growling after weeks of nearly nothing and it’s not hard to ignore everything and dig in.

She forces herself to eat slowly and push her plate away before it’s even half empty, not wanting to get sick.  The water is a different story, though – that she gulps down so quickly her throat practically convulses.  When the glass is empty, they set another one in front of her and she drinks that, too, relieved as she feels the sharp edges slough off of her dehydration.

She’s finishing her third glass when Stiles comes stumbling into the room, cringing and limping.  He’s clearly in a lot of pain, but when he slowly eases himself into the chair next to her, his concern is all for her.  “Okay?” he asks, nearly inaudible.  He breathes it, not even moving his lips.  If Malia weren’t a coyote, she would have missed it.

Stiles doesn’t eat his food until she nods in answer.

When they’re done, the guards take Stiles to their cell.  Malia, on the other hand, is led to an office, strangely clean and well-lit as compared to the rest of the compound, and made to stand before the boss.  Her hands are shaking with fear.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks, gray eyebrows raised to his hairline.  He’s old but strong, arms folded dangerously across his chest. 

“I wolfed out,” Malia says simply, trying to keep the tremors out of her voice.  It’s not exactly true – she’s not a wolf – but she’s trying to maintain the balance.  She’s trying to bore him.

Unfortunately, the man doesn’t seem easily bored.  “You wolfed out,” he agrees, leaning forward in his desk chair.  “We can’t have that, sweetheart.”  Malia flinches at the pet name.  “You’re here to service the buyers, not traumatize them.  Do you know what we do to wolves that can’t control themselves?”

Malia stays silent, waiting for the answer.

“ _We_ control them,” the boss says simply, shrugging.  “With this.”

A vial of yellow wolfsbane rolls across the desk.  Abject terror goes zinging through Malia’s entire body.  She takes a stumbling step back despite herself.

The boss just grins.  “Take her away,” he says, waving his hand dismissively.  “She won’t mess up again.  I know a good girl when I see one.”

The guards are ruthless as they practically drag her down the hallways.  The compound is like a maze and Malia finds herself getting dizzy, stomach hurting more and more as the fluorescent lights glare in her eyes and all the water she drank catches up with her.  It soon becomes obvious that she’d overdone it, three glasses after weeks of nothing, and as they finally enter the dim corridor she remembers being led from that morning, urine is slowly dripping down her bare legs.  Luckily, the guards don’t seem to notice and she manages to get a hand down there, holding herself tightly through her disgusting shorts.  They’re dirty with a mixture of piss, come from her time with Stiles, and abashed arousal from sleeping with Ms. Baccari.  Malia’s never hated herself more.

It’s only when they toss her into the cell, down the two rickety steps and onto the concrete next to Stiles, that it’s just too much and her bladder lets go completely, soaking her shorts and falling to the floor in an embarrassing puddle as she races to the bucket in the corner.  Knowing it’s futile, she doesn’t even bother pulling them down, just squats over the bucket as she finishes pissing herself.  She feels so degraded, she cries like a baby.

“I’m sorry,” she weeps, unable to look at Stiles.  “I got the floor all gross.”

“You literally held me while I shit the first day we met,” Stiles points out matter-of-factly.  His voice sounds muffled and Malia looks up to find him hiding beneath the blanket.  She thinks he’s trying to give her privacy.  “You never need to be embarrassed about anything.  I mean it.”

Malia decides to take his word for it, discarding her wet underwear and shorts in the corner and walking gingerly across the floor, barefoot and half naked.  When Stiles finally comes out of hiding to look up at her, he gives her a soft smile.  “Come here, beautiful,” he says, making grabby hands at her.  “Let me hold _you_ for once.”

They don’t talk about what they went through that day.  It doesn’t feel right, wrapped up in each other and Stiles’ thumb stroking soothingly back and forth over Malia’s bare hip.  Every once in a while it dips to the crease of her upper thigh, making her shiver.  But he never goes farther than that, knowing better than anyone that having sex with someone once in no way counts as consent for a second.  Or a third.  Or a fourth.  Or however many times they might drag you down a fluorescent hallway and throw you before twenty pairs of leering eyes.

Stiles doesn’t want to sleep with her – he wants to touch her.  He wants to comfort her.  He wants to _be_ with her in a way that counts.  Malia closes her eyes and loses herself in the feeling.

And later, when Malia dreams of Ms. Baccari trying to swallow her whole, Stiles lets her cry into his shoulder until she falls back to sleep.

*** 

When Malia wakes up the next morning, Stiles is hard against her bare ass.  A simmering arousal sits low in her belly and she can’t help but squirm, freezing when Stiles lets out a loud groan and wakes up.

“Oh god, sorry,” he mumbles sleepily, scooting away so he’s no longer pressed up against her.  “It’s just from sleeping, I promise.”

“Don’t apologize,” Malia tells him, turning over to face him.  She reaches over to push his dirty hair out of his eyes – it’s getting long.  They haven’t cut it since Malia arrived here.  “I don’t mind.”  Then her eyes flick down to his crotch for just a fraction of a second and Stiles’ cheeks pink up.  “Do you want me to help you?”

Stiles’ breath stutters and he stares at her.  “You mean, like—?” 

Malia nods.  “You made me feel good…now it’s your turn.  If you want to, of course.”

Stiles ducks his head, surprisingly abashed for someone who spent the better part of an hour the day before getting Malia off over and over again.  She squeezes her legs together just thinking about it.  “You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly, shakily.  “I didn’t do that so you’d return the favor.  I did it because I wanted to – because you deserved it.”

“I know.”  Malia traces his jawline with the tips of her fingers.  “I’m asking because _I_ want to.  You deserve it, too, you know.”  When Stiles doesn’t answer, Malia whispers sadly, her brow furrowed with concern, “When’s the last time you were touched by someone who actually cared about you?”

At the question, Stiles’ eyes fill with tears.  “I—” he chokes out, lips trembling.  “Before—”

That’s all he manages to say, but Malia gets the message loud and clear.  “Scott,” she guesses, knowing she’s right.  “Scott used to touch you.”

The last thread of Stiles’ control breaks and he chokes out a sob.  “Sometimes,” he admits, scrubbing furiously at the tears on his face.  “We’d never done it before winding up in this hellhole, but after being here for a couple months, we just couldn’t stand it anymore.  We needed to remember what it was like, you know?  To be loved – like, _genuinely_ loved.  To know that the person touching you isn’t gonna try to hurt you.”  Stiles’ lungs hitch, overcome with emotion.  “The morning we decided to go all the way, we got caught.  One of the guards shot at me and Scott killed him.  Just fucking—ripped his throat out.  There was blood _everywhere_.  So they—”  He stops.

“So they executed him,” Malia finishes for him, heart aching in her chest.  She wipes away Stiles’ tears with the heel of her hand.  “I’m so sorry, Stiles.”

“I loved him so much,” Stiles weeps.  Then, “Please, touch me, Mal.  I—I want you to touch me, please.”

“Of course, baby,” she murmurs, then pulls his underwear down until the elastic sits at the base of his dick and wraps a hand around him. 

Stiles is a whimpering mess within seconds, his hips bucking helplessly and sweat dripping from his hairline.  Tears are caught at the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall, instead looking at Malia beseechingly like he needs something.  Malia is confused until he puts his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them desperately.

“You need something in your mouth, don’t you?” she says, but it’s not a question.  She knows it’s true.  “Poor thing.  It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

So she presses forward to kiss him on the mouth, pushing her tongue past his lips and not shying away from the awful taste.  She’s almost used to it by now – she’ll taste just as bad soon enough – and when Stiles starts sucking on her tongue, it makes her skin buzz.  He sucks and she strokes and it’s barely a minute later that Stiles jerks away and comes into the space between them, splattering both their shirts in semen.

He pants for air, hands gripping her hips as he tries to recover.  “Th-thank you,” he stutters out breathlessly.  His eyes are filled with tears.  “You’re amazing.”

“I love you,” Malia says and she means it.  “I know I’ll never be Scott, but I really do love you, Stiles.”

Stiles buries his face in Malia’s neck.  She can feel tears dripping onto her skin.  “I love you, too,” he says and Malia has to strain to hear it even with her supernatural hearing.  “I don’t need you to be Scott…I just need you to stay with me.”

“Always,” Malia promises, stroking her hand over his tangled hair.  “I’ll always stay with you.”

But when the guards find them tangled up together, clothes dirty with semen, they drag Stiles away kicking and screaming.  One of the men says something about solitary confinement.  Another one calls Malia a whore.

Stiles never returns to their cell.

*** 

Malia isn’t the same after Stiles is ripped from her arms.  Without her friend to keep her sane, she succumbs to the terror and helplessness of her situation, standing before the customers blank-faced and emotionless.  She lies back passively as men thrust into her, moaning exaggeratedly when they snap at her to participate.  She sucks too many dicks to count and learns to finger women to completion with a horrifying level of competence.  Ms. Baccari is a repeat customer and the only one to request that Malia use her mouth.  In a twisted way, Malia looks forward to her visits.

At least with Ms. Baccari there’s no pain.  No humiliation beyond the natural embarrassment that comes with being forced into service.  She’s always gentle and talks about how beautiful Malia is – Malia’s underwear is always soaked when she leaves Ms. Baccari.  Those days it’s hard to eat, her middle on fire with arousal that leaves her feeling almost sick.  Malia’s learned how to flex her thighs and grind down in her seat in the cafeteria to stave off the desperation until she’s back in her cell by herself and able to push two fingers inside.

She feels a lot less guilty when she closes her eyes and pretends the fingers belong to Stiles.  She hopes he’s okay in solitary.

They must let him out at some point, because on the day the compound closes for a mass cleaning, Malia catches his scent.  The water from the shower feels amazing beating down on her soapy head, but as soon as the smell of him enters her nose, she’s turning off the faucet.  Stiles is the only thing she wants more than a shower.

Wary of her captors, Malia climbs the brick wall of the shower stall, stalking like an actual coyote from cubicle to cubicle.  Most of the other captives don’t even notice her overhead, but the ones that do just carry on with their washing.  It’s none of their business whether she has a death wish or not.

She follows Stiles’ scent all the way to the last stall, heart leaping into her throat when she sees a skinny boy shivering beneath the warm water.  The boy’s head is shaved and he’s so emaciated that she can see every single rib through his paper thin skin, but it’s definitely Stiles.  Malia drops into his cubicle on silent feet.

When he sees her, his eyes go wide.  She can tell he wants to say something or perhaps just sob, but he presses his lips together in a hard line to hold it back.  They can’t get caught.

So instead he opens his arms to her and holds her tight when she falls into them.  She runs her hands over his quivering back, rocking him just slightly from side to side like it’ll soothe the tremors.  He’s clinging to her so desperately his fingernails leave crescent-shaped indents in her shoulder blades.

When they pull away, they’re both crying as quietly as they can.  Malia can’t help it – she kisses him fiercely, drawing the pain from Stiles’ body with her mouth.  He’s hurting so badly just the second-hand pain makes Malia’s vision go spotty around the edges.  It makes her so angry she wants to kill someone.

But she doesn’t – she just pulls and pulls until Stiles falls back against the brick wall in relief, breathing harshly through his nose.  His eyes are glittering with tears.

They wash each other’s hair and swipe soap over each other’s bodies until they almost look human again.  The water around their feet is brown with dirt, swirling down the drain.  Once they’re satisfied that they’re finally clean, they spend the rest of their allotted time kissing like they’re starving for each other.  “Baby,” Malia says, chancing a whisper straight into Stiles’ ear.  Stiles’ fingers flex on her hips.  “ _Baby_.”

When a two-minute warning is called, Malia pulls away begrudgingly.  She holds up her hand and tucks her middle and ring finger down in the universal sign for _I love you_ before climbing back up the wall and scrambling for her stall.  Stiles blows her a miserable little kiss before she’s out of sight.

Malia cries herself to sleep for the first time in weeks.

*** 

On Malia’s sixteenth visit with Ms. Baccari the woman goes down on Malia for the first time.  It’s a sensation Malia’s never felt before, so much more intense than being fingered or fucked, and she gets close quickly.  She doesn’t know what the rules are – she’s never been even slightly close to orgasm when servicing the customers – and she finds herself choking out a desperate, confused little, “Can I—?”

“Yes, beautiful!”  Ms. Baccari pulls away just long enough to say it.  “Go ahead, my love.”

Then she’s got her mouth on Malia again and Malia comes hard, body shuddering and a raspy _Stiles!_ falling from between her lips.  It’s only when she comes back to herself that she realizes what she said.  Terrified, she sits up and scoots back until she’s leaning against the headboard, her knees tucked up to her chin.  “I’m so sorry!” she cries, in an all-out panic.  “I didn’t—Ms. Baccari, I—!”

But the woman isn’t offended – no, she’s _delighted_ , crawling forward to gently swipe Malia’s hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears so she can see her better.  “Who’s Stiles?” she asks, smile on her lips.  “Does he live here?”

Malia nods wordlessly, scared to speak.

“Are you in love with him?”

A quick head shake.

Ms. Baccari tsks.  “That’s too bad, sweetheart,” she says, tone dripping with honey.  “Any boy – or girl – would be lucky to have your affections.  Your body wants him, though?”

It’s not exactly right, but Malia nods anyway.  She doesn’t expect an outsider to understand the desperate longing to be touched without fear, to be wrapped up in a love that doesn’t hurt.  To have someone hold you that won’t let go after they get off.  Stiles is her best friend and the only one she can trust – her body wants him because her soul needs him.

“Well, I wish you all the best with your little boy toy,” Ms. Baccari says and Malia tries not to flinch at the word.  She knows that Ms. Baccari is being genuine.  Being able to think of people as toys without wanting to vomit is a privilege and one Malia no longer has.  She just whispers out a quiet _thank you_ and lets herself be led away to the cafeteria.   

That night she dreams of Stiles’ big brown eyes looking up at her from between her legs and wakes up with slick smeared on her inner thighs.  Despite the ache, she doesn’t touch herself this time.  Stiles isn’t a toy.

*** 

Ms. Baccari is back at the end of the week.

The customers know better than to try to outbid Ms. Baccari for Malia – she once paid three-thousand dollars to fuck Malia with a strap-on – so it’s barely a minute before they’re stretched out together on one of the beds.  But before Malia can ask what she wants, Ms. Baccari kisses Malia on the forehead and tells her, eyes lit with happiness, “I arranged for a surprise for you!”

“For me?” Malia says, disbelieving.  “What kind of surprise?”

Instead of answering, Ms. Baccari pushes the button over the bed for assistance and the bedroom door opens, revealing two guards and a sweaty, feverish-looking Stiles with his hands cuffed in front of him.  Malia makes a high-pitched sound in the back of her throat at the sight.

“I sent for your boy,” Ms. Baccari says, gesturing for Stiles to step inside.  He does, eyeing her warily.  The guards close the doors behind him.  “Now be a good girl and take his cuffs off, yeah?  There’s no use for a boy that can’t even touch you.”

Mind reeling and hands shaking, Malia steps gingerly across the carpet until she’s standing before Stiles, reaching hesitantly toward him.  He gives a single jerk of a nod and she presses the hinge to release him.  He rubs his wrists, wincing.  “Hi, Mal,” he says, just barely audible.

“This isn’t the teary reunion I expected,” Ms. Baccari says from her perch on the bed.  “Is there something wrong?”

Malia knows it’s risky but Ms. Baccari hasn’t hurt her yet, so she turns to the woman questioningly and asks, “What’s going on?  What do—what am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to fuck him,” Ms. Baccari tells her matter-of-factly.  Malia’s eyes feel like they’re going to pop out of her head they’re so wide.  “Because you want him and I was kind enough to get him for you.”  She turns her attention to Stiles.  “I give this one the best orgasm of her life and, lo and behold, what name does she say?  Yours.  Not that I can blame her…you’re quite a handsome young man.  You know, if I were into that sort of thing.”

Malia is so embarrassed she feels sick, but before she can do something stupid like cry or try to run from the room, Stiles grabs her hand and laces their fingers together.  “It’s okay,” he breathes, for her coyote ears only.  “I love you, too.”

“So hop up on the bed here and have at it, darlings,” Ms. Baccari says cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to their strife.  “Before the aphrodisiac wears off.”

It’s at that moment that Malia finally notices that Stiles is hard.  Like, uncomfortably so.  Suddenly the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the fevered look in his eyes make sense.  He’s been drugged – not out-of-his-mind drugged, just drugged enough to help his weak, starving body get it up.  It makes Malia want to cry.

“Stiles—” she says and he shakes his head, cutting her off.  He doesn’t want to talk about it.  She can’t blame him.

Ms. Baccari is getting impatient.  “Do I need to remind you that I’m paying for this?” she says, just this side of annoyed.  “I could’ve made you eat me out again, but instead I got you a gift out of the kindness of my heart.  Don’t waste it, sweetheart.”

It doesn’t sound like a threat, but Malia knows it is.  So she takes a deep, shuddering breath and leads Stiles to the bed by the hand.  He’s so weak he can barely climb up onto the huge four-poster, muscles trembling with exertion.  Malia helps him settle back against the pillow, rubbing a comforting hand over his shorn hair.

“I’ll ride you,” she says quietly, leaning down so they have some semblance of privacy.  “I know you’re tired.”

Stiles swallows hard and nods, looking up at her with eyes full of fear.  She knows it’s not her he’s scared of – his body stops shaking as she takes a seat on his thighs – but it still breaks her heart.  She doesn’t want to do this.  Up until this point, Malia and Stiles’ relationship had been private, locked away in their cell away from prying eyes.  Now they’re out in the open, Ms. Baccari settling back in the easy chair with her legs spread and her fingers tucked into her underwear and the red light of the security camera blinking steadily as it records. 

It feels like losing Stiles all over again.  It feels like giving him up.

But Malia’s top priority is making Stiles comfortable – it’s Malia’s fault he’s even being forced into this, after all – so she surges up to kiss him gently and whispers, “It’s just you and me, okay?  Just you and me.  No one else matters.”

“Okay,” Stiles says brokenly and then Malia settles her hips down onto Stiles’, rocking them together as they kiss.  Stiles hisses at the feeling.

They move together, thrusting through their clothes, until Malia is wet and Ms. Baccari is bored.  “Take his clothes off,” she says finally.  “Nice and slow…make it interesting.”

Malia follows orders, but just barely.  She gently pulls Stiles’ shirt over his head as quickly and clinically as possible, balling it up and tossing it unceremoniously to the floor.  Stiles isn’t a plaything to gawk at – Malia will do what she has to in order to keep them both alive, but she’s not going to play a part in dehumanizing him.  He’s a person – a boy that she loves very much – and she’s going to treat him as such.

She gasps when she sees what’s under his shirt.  His ribs are somehow more prominent than they were in the shower all those weeks ago, but even worse, they’re mangled and bruised like someone’s been hitting him.  His stomach is nearly concave and the hair beneath his belly button is patchy, the skin red and scabbed in some places.  Malia can tell it’s been ripped out.

“Stiles,” she says quietly, upset.  She traces the curve of one of his ribs with the tip of her finger.  Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, ears going pink.  “What did they do to you?”

 He doesn’t answer, not that she expected him to.  Stomach churning, she kisses down his chest and his belly, pulling pain from every point of contact.  His body relaxes little by little until he’s practically melted into the bed, his breathing deep and even for the first time since being brought to the room.  If it weren’t for the uncomfortable hard-on she can feel pressing up against her chest, she might think he was asleep.

But he’s not asleep and Malia’s treated Ms. Baccari to more affectionate foreplay than the woman deserves, so Malia quickly unzips Stiles’ pants.  “Sorry,” she whispers before she yanks his pants and underwear down just enough to free his penis.  His ass isn’t even all the way out.  “I’m so sorry, Stiles.”  She wants to call him _baby_ – he looks like he needs it badly, his eyes wild and shimmering with tears – but she can’t stomach the thought of Ms. Baccari hearing.

That’s one thing that belongs to them only.  Malia would rather die than give it away.

Malia quickly rolls a condom onto Stiles’ dick and settles down onto it in one motion, sitting in his lap like she’s learned to do over the past months.  A strangled sound gets caught in the back of Stiles’ throat and Malia leans down to soothe him with a kiss, rolling her hips experimentally.  His hands fly up to grip at her waist.

She rides him as well as she can, quickly realizing that Stiles is much too weak and exhausted to even thrust up into her, trying to make Stiles come quickly.  The faster he gets off, the faster this is over.  His bottom lip is bitten between his teeth as he tries with all his might not to make a sound, face scrunched up with concentration.  He looks like he’s in pain and it makes Malia desperately sad. 

Just for a second, Malia’s thoughts flit to Scott who Stiles never got to have this with.  And now he doesn’t get to have it with Malia, either.  At least, not in a way that counts.  Not in a way that hasn’t been twisted and distorted until it’s ugly and gross and fucked up.

Malia runs her hands down Stiles’ skinny arms until they’re holding hands over his head.  She kisses him with as much passion as she can muster.

Just when Stiles’ body seizes up and his eyes go wide in warning, Ms. Baccari snaps her fingers for Malia to climb off of Stiles.  Malia stills.  “What?” she cries in disbelief.  “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Ms. Baccari says, eyes holding a glint of mischief that makes Malia’s stomach sink with worry.  “Let me handle this one, yeah?”

She makes Malia sit in the chair, leaving her to watch in horror as Ms. Baccari yanks the condom from Stiles’ dick and forcibly turns him over, pulling his pants down all the way so his bare ass is exposed.  “You may rub off on the bed until completion,” she says sweetly, like she’s letting him have something nice.  “Let me hear you or I’ll report you to your bosses.”

So Stiles humps down into the bed with the last of his strength, guttural noises falling from between his lips.  His face is on fire with humiliation, but Malia had gotten him so close to the edge he falls over it quickly, moaning so loudly Malia wants to muffle it with her lips.  He’s crying.

Malia cries, too, when Stiles’ bladder lets go, soaking into the sheets despite the way he grabs at his penis, trying to stave the flow.  He smells like shame from head to toe and she wants to leap off the chair and hug him.  Wants to hold him close and tell him that it’s alright, it’s okay, he couldn’t help it, he’s still lovely and wonderful and her favorite person in the world.

But she can’t do any of that, so she cries and hugs her knees as Ms. Baccari slaps Stiles’ ass in disgust, calling him every nasty word she can think of.  “I’m s-sorry!” he’s weeping, sitting up painfully and pulling one of the wet sheets into his lap to conceal his modesty.  “I’m all m-messed up!  I didn’t know I was gonna—I didn’t try to!”

She just backhands him across the face.

Luckily, the guards choose that moment to open the door, because Malia doesn’t think she could’ve held herself back.  The men lift Stiles off the bed easily, locking him back in cuffs and apologizing to Ms. Baccari profusely.  Then they drag Stiles away before Malia can say a word to him.

The rest of her time with Ms. Baccari is a blur of mouths and fingers and sweet petnames that make Malia want to throw up.  She feels so messed up inside, she hardly even notices when she orgasms around Ms. Baccari’s fingers.  It’s not that she’d ever truly trusted Ms. Baccari – she was a person who knowingly bought sex from unwilling participants after all – but she’d been stupid enough to think that there’d never be pain.

Making love to Stiles and then having him callously ripped away in tears is the cruelest kind of pain Malia’s ever felt.

She knows it’s impossible, but she almost thinks she can hear Stiles screaming from her cell.  The walls are thick enough to block even a wolf’s hearing, but still her ears ring with it.  She hopes they’re not hurting him.

The longer she lies there wrapped in the blankets that still smell faintly of Stiles, the angrier Malia gets.  This compound is full of the worst kind of monsters – the kind that don’t need claws or fangs – and it’s about damn time someone did something.  So, mind made up, Malia narrows her eyes and watches the door.

Someone’s going to die tomorrow and if it’s Malia, so be it.

*** 

They aren’t ready for her.

She’s played the part of the dissociated submissive long enough that they don’t see it coming, even in the heat of the moment.  Malia manages to take down both of her guards before they call for backup, tearing their throats from their necks and splattering the cell with blood.  When she races into the hallway, she’s met by four more guards with weapons raised, but it’s surprisingly easy to knock the guns from their hands and slash her claws across their faces.  She thinks she only killed one of them, but she’s not worried about it.  All she cares about is getting Stiles and getting out.

By the time she feels a stabbing sensation in her thigh and looks down to see a tranquilizer dart protruding from her leg, her hands are dripping with blood.  She falls to the floor.

When the tranq wears off, Malia is outside.  It’s the first time Malia’s seen the sun in months and the brightness hurts her eyes.  It takes a while for her to register the cuffs around her hands and ankles and the chain binding her to a wooden post behind her.  The boss, his wrinkled face written with fury and disgust, is standing before her, surrounded by guards and well out of biting range.

Fucking coward.

“I thought we had an understanding, my dear,” he says, tapping something against his open palm.  When Malia squints against the sunlight she realizes it’s the vial of yellow wolfsbane.  Her heart starts pounding in her chest.  “I let you live after you wolfed out with one of our most loyal customers and this is how you repay me?  By killing five of my men?”

“Oh, so they did die,” Malia says, satisfied.  It’s probably foolhardy but it’s hard to care when she’s four seconds from being executed.  She’s done lying back and taking it.  She’s going down fighting or not at all.  “And don’t call me that.”

“Or what?”  The boss raises a dangerous eyebrow.  “What are you going to do about it?  I have the upper hand here and you know it.”

Malia growls under her breath, letting her eyes light up blue and treacherous.  “What’s to stop me from busting out of these chains and killing the rest of you?  I already have blood on my hands – I’m prepared to get more.  A _lot_ more.”

“Because if you so much as pull on one of those cuffs, I’m going to drag your little boyfriend out here and have my men fuck him to death right in front of you,” the boss tells her, voice and heartbeat dangerously even.  The blood drains from Malia’s face.  “You know he cries for you at night?  Just like he did for the boy before you.  That little shit pretends to be above it all, pretends to be angry and strong and tough, but at the heart of it?  He’s fucking _pathetic_.”

It’s all Malia can do to choke back a sob, because she knows exactly what’s going to happen: she’s going to die today.  She’s going to die so Stiles can live.

“Do we have an agreement?”  The boss is smirking at her like he knows he’s won.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Malia nods.  “We have an agreement.”

“Excellent.”

Malia watches with her head held high and determined as the boss coats a bullet in wolfsbane and loads it into his gun.  Then, stepping back a few yards, he aims it straight at Malia’s chest.  “Any last words, sweetcheeks?” he asks, tone deceptively gentle.  He’s smiling and it makes Malia sick.  “Now’s the time.”

But before Malia can even open her mouth, the ground shakes with a powerful roar and a red-eyed boy breaks through the tree line, fangs gleaming with saliva.  He pounces on the closest guard, slamming them to the ground and slashing his claws across their throat.  The guard’s body goes slack.

The yard is instantly in an uproar.  The young alpha is tossing men away like they’re made of paper, easily catching the darts that are shot at him out of midair and slamming them into the bodies of his assailants.  In the midst of the confusion, the boss shoots the wolfsbane bullet at Malia, letting out a howl of pain when the wolf’s claws are suddenly embedded in his shoulder.  The bullet slams into the wooden post above Malia’s head.

The boss’s eyes are huge.  “You’re supposed to be dead!” he cries, looking at the boy like he’s seeing a ghost.

The boy just snarls.  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Then he puts a hand on either side of the man’s head and snaps his neck. 

The alpha has Malia out of her chains in seconds, the metal clanking as it falls to the ground.  “We need to get out of here,” he says urgently, traces of fear sneaking into the corners of his bravado and making him seem much younger and more human than he did mere seconds ago.  He’s grabbing Malia’s wrist.  “I’ll get you to safety, okay?  But we have to go _now_.”

Malia yanks her hand away.  As grateful as she is to be saved from certain death, she can’t just leave.  “I can’t…my friend’s in there!” she says, already racing for the back door of the compound.  “Stiles is in there!”

The name pulls the boy up short, the red draining from his eyes until they’re huge and almost black.  “Stiles?” he whispers, his voice trembling.  He sounds like a little boy.  “You know Stiles?”

All of a sudden it all makes sense.  “You’re _Scott_!” Malia cries, staring at him in disbelief.  “You’re Scott and you’re—not dead!”

“And Stiles isn’t either,” Scott says, tone lifting on the end like it’s a question.  Suddenly, his eyes are brimming with tears.  “God, I thought—I thought they were gonna kill him.”

They can’t stand around any longer.  The guards are starting to pull themselves to their feet, yanking tranquilizer darts from their skin and moaning at the pain in their limbs.  It’s only a matter of time before they start shooting again, so Malia grabs Scott’s hand and yanks him toward the ugly, metal building.  “He’s halfway there, buddy,” Malia says sadly, trying not to think about her best friend beneath her, every bone visible through his pale skin.  “But we’re gonna save him and we’re gonna get him better.  He’s going to be okay, Scott.”

Scott doesn’t answer, just shifts back to his beta form with a growl.  Malia follows suit.

The hallways are overrun with panicked guards that scramble to attack once they see the two escaped prisoners.  Scott and Malia work as a team, holding and slashing and covering each other’s backs as they’re assaulted from every side.  Malia’s heart lurches in her chest when one of the men shoots an electric charge straight at her, but Scott jumps in front of her just in time to grab the electrified wire with his bare hands and toss it to the ground with a roar.

“Damn, dude!” Malia shouts in amazement as she slams a fist into someone’s eye.  “Holy fucking shit!”

“Their control room is around the corner,” Scott yells in answer, throwing a guard up against a wall.  “We can open the cells from there!”

That has the guard on his feet again, scrambling to cock his gun.  “You’ll do no such—”

Scott punches the guy in the jaw, making him fall to the ground in pain.  “Oh, shut up.”

Somehow they make it through the barrage of bullets and stun batons to the control room, slamming and locking the door behind them.  They gaze down at the control panel for a few seconds, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of buttons and switches, before Malia shrugs and just starts pressing things at random.  “We’re having a fucking jailbreak,” she says, almost giddy with excitement.  “Watch the monitors and tell me when the cell doors start opening.”

It takes a few moments of flickering lights and cameras switching on and off, but soon Scott is bouncing on the balls of his feet, shouting, “Yes!  Yes, keep going!  You’ve got ‘em!”

Nearly cackling in excitement, Malia presses every button in the row until the halls are flooded with confused prisoners, blinking as they step out of their confines and into the fluorescent lights of freedom.  “Now what?” Malia says, watching them on the screens. 

“Now we start a riot.”  Without further explanation, Scott opens the control room door just a crack and alpha roars so loudly the lightbulb overhead shatters and showers his dark hair with bits of glass. 

The reaction is immediate.  Every supernatural creature in the place snaps to attention, their eyes glowing gold, blue, red, green, orange, purple – even white, which Malia has never seen before.  As the guards round the corner, the prisoners attack, spurred on by bloodthirst and the pull in their chest from knowing that an alpha is watching their backs.  They don’t lose control, though – no, they’re careful to only strike against the guards, keeping the human captives safely behind them and out of the way of the fight.  It’s beautiful to watch.

That is, until Malia realizes who’s missing.

“Stiles!” she cries, lunging closer to the screen like she’ll be able to find his tiny, familiar body in the melee.  She doesn’t.  “I don’t think we opened solitary!”

“Shit.”  Scott joins her by the panel, eyes raking the buttons.  “Do you even know where solitary is?”

“No.”  Malia is getting nervous.  In a last-ditch effort to free her friend, she presses every remaining button and flips every switch until there are none left.  Then she steels herself and throws open the door, the sound of the battle ringing in her ears.  “We’ll follow his scent.”

Then she’s racing down the hall straight into the fray.

It’s a damn bloodbath.  The guards are no match for forty murderous supernaturals and their furious human counterparts – most of them are lying on the ground in pools of their own blood.  The ones that are still alive are crying in terror, begging for their lives.  Malia jumps out of the way just in time to watch a red-headed werejaguar reach through a guard’s Kevlar vest and yank his heart from his chest.  Scott cringes at the sight, but Malia doesn’t even flinch.  It’s what they deserve.

Malia and Scott catch Stiles’ scent at the same time.  It’s soured with terror and so much pain Malia wants to choke, but it’s definitely Stiles and it’s coming from up a flight of concrete steps.  They take them two at a time and race through the halls after their friend, the scent leading them through the twisted corridors like a blinking neon arrow.

There’s a gun pressed to his temple when they find him.

“Don’t take another step,” the guard warns them, his voice echoing in the empty halls.  It’s weirdly quiet up here, tucked away from the battle beneath.  Malia wonders how he managed to escape.  “Or I’ll shoot him.”

“You hurt him and I’ll murder you,” Scott tells the man seriously, not a hint of wavering in his voice.  His heartbeat doesn’t stutter.  Stiles is so out of it, he doesn’t even register the voice of his best friend.  His eyes are closed and his body is slumped over in the doorway of solitary confinement like his limbs are made of noodles.  If it weren’t for the rasping, painful breaths wheezing from between his lips, Malia might be afraid he was dead.  “How about that?”

“You’re going to murder me anyway,” the man sneers, though Malia can hear the fear in it.  “And if you don’t, _they_ will.”

“I’m glad you realize that,” Malia tells him, crossing her arms.  “None of you are making it out of this alive.  This _business_ isn’t making it out of this alive.  In case you haven’t heard, your boss is dead.”  At the man’s wide eyes, Malia nods.  “Yeah.  Scott broke his neck just like _that_.”  She snaps her fingers.  “So there’s no reason for you to still be fighting.  It’ll gain you nothing.  Just let us have Stiles.”

“Because we _are_ getting Stiles,” Scott adds darkly.  “It’s just up to you whether you want to die quickly or agonizingly slowly.”

The guard’s finger twitches on the trigger but before Malia and Scott can lunge forward, the man is yelping in anguish and grabbing his leg where blood is seeping from a hole in his tactical pants.  The gun clatters to the ground.  “You guys talk too much,” Stiles slurs, his hand shaking where it’s clutching a bloody nail.  “Just get me the fuck out of here.”

Relief seeping into their bones, Scott and Malia do as they’re told.

Together they slash the guard across the neck and together they pull Stiles to his feet, practically dragging him through the corridors, down the stairs, and out into the deceptively cheerful sunlight.  It isn’t until they’ve made it safely past the tree line and into the woods that Stiles stares at Scott like he’s seeing him for the first time.  “Scotty?” he cries, face written with wonder.  “Is that really you?”

“It’s really me,” Scott promises, a smile tugging at his lips.  “It’s good to see you, buddy.”

“Oh god,” Stiles says and just lets himself be dragged along.

*** 

They don’t stop running until nightfall, the woods ringing with the sounds of their fellow captives howling happily and crashing through the underbrush as they try to find their way back home.  Malia picks berries and feeds them to Stiles one by one as he stretches out in the dirt, the moonlight casting shadows across his gaunt face.  He sucks them off her fingers, lips smacking against the tart flavor, and Malia can’t help put stare down at him.  She has him back.  She has Stiles _back_.

“N’more,” he says after a while, rubbing his poor concave belly.  “M’gonna get sick.”  Then, eyebrows knit together and eyes filling with tears, “I dreamed Scott was back from the dead.”

Scott crawls over until he’s crouched next to Stiles’ body.  “I’m right here, Stiles,” Scott whispers and both boys break at the same time.

They sob, clutching at each other’s arms, clothes, faces.  Stiles keeps saying “Scotty?” over and over again, high-pitched and soaked in tears and desperation.  They’re going to talk about it at some point – if Malia’s curious as to how Scott survived yellow wolfsbane, she knows Stiles will be, too – but for now they’re content to hold each other so tightly it’s hard to tell what limbs belong to whom.  It’s Scott who presses forward first, capturing Stiles’ mouth in a passionate kiss.  Stiles kisses back, whimpering, and Malia looks away.

This isn’t for her.

It’s a strange feeling, listening to Stiles kiss someone else.  She’d never begrudge him it, especially not with Scott, his best friend in the entire world.  Scott was there for Stiles before Malia ever showed up, but it’s the most peculiar kind of whiplash to have had Stiles’ inside her the day before only to now have him shaking apart in the arms of another.  She forces back any feelings of jealously that want to flare up.  Stiles doesn’t belong to her – people don’t belong to other people.  People aren’t playthings. 

Still, it’s a relief when the kissing stops and Stiles says from across the campsite, “Scotty, that’s Malia!”  When Malia looks up, he’s pointing at her and grinning.  “That’s Malia and I love her so much.”

Scott laughs, so happy his eyes squint up into little slits.  “Pleased to meet you, Malia!” he says, bringing his hand up to his forehead in a goofy salute.  “You’re pretty fucking badass with those claws.”

Malia ducks her head, cheeks going pink.  “Nothing compared to you.”

“No one is,” Stiles agrees, then he crooks a finger at her.  “Get over here.”

When Malia finds herself squished between Stiles and Scott, the former eagerly kissing her wherever he can reach and the latter pressed up against her back like a little werewolf heater, all her misgivings melt away.  Her best friend is back in her arms and _his_ best friend is alive and they’re finally free.  She couldn’t ask for anything else.

Just because they don’t belong to each other, it doesn’t mean they don’t belong.

 

 

_Epilogue_

When Stiles finally gets to have all of Scott, they’re in a hotel bed with clean white sheets and the bruises have faded from Stiles’ ribs.  His stomach has filled out again, the tiniest bit of softness sitting low on his belly, and his face has lost the sharp edges.  His breath hitches as he pushes inside and Malia runs a comforting hand over his back to soothe him.  It calms him and soon he’s rocking his hips against Scott’s ass, cheeks stained pink.

Scott’s looking up at Stiles in awe.  “I love you,” he murmurs, before pulling Stiles down for a kiss.  “ _God_ , Stiles!”

They come at almost the same time and Malia clutches their shaking hands in each of hers as they pant for breath and try to recover.  “You guys are beautiful,” she tells them and she means it.  Scott pulls her in to kiss her forehead affectionately and Malia’s stomach swoops.  “My favorite boys.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Stiles jokes, breath tickling the side of her face.  He smudges a thumb against her chin.  “Sit back against the headboard, yeah?”

And then he’s looking up at her with big brown eyes from between her legs and he’s grinning crookedly and Malia is _burning_.  When she comes it’s with _baby!_ on her lips and Stiles’ soft, clean hair tickling against her skin.  His fingers flex on her thighs and when he pulls away, his eyes are shining with tears.

“My baby,” she says again and he is.

**Author's Note:**

> explanation of noncon warnings (SPOILERS): stiles talks to malia bluntly and directly about what he's been put through each day, without going into detail about actual acts. malia has two scenes with a paying "customer" (horrible, awful person) that include cunnilingus that isn't really described. stiles and malia are forced to sleep together for a customer's amusement in a scene that's a bit more detailed, but they have no anger or disgust for one another when it's over.
> 
> please stay safe, kids. give this a pass if you think it'll trigger you


End file.
